Forsaken (15 page)

The kitchen smelled of frying eggs and sizzling bacon, buttermilk biscuits and melting butter, tangy orange juice and hot coffee. The calendar nailed to the wall had already been turned to December.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
The Amish adhered to the seasons, the changes, the life cycles that the Lord had prepared for them, planting and plucking up that which was planted in due course, and yet Hannah felt a resistance in her very soul concerning
the time to mourn and a time to dance
. Was it her time, as Rachel and Grace and Beth Ann had suggested to her so often? But to Hannah, the reasons to mourn kept piling up inside her, from Jacob to Grandma Ruth to this confusing loss of an innocent lamb, and moving beyond those reasons seemed an impossible task.

She slipped off her cape and hung it on the peg beside the back door, averting her gaze from Mamm and Katie who were already bustling about the kitchen.

“You were up early, Hannah.” Mamm cracked an egg into the frying pan. “Did you rest well last night?”

Hannah nodded, slipping into the morning routine as quickly as possible, as she checked the puffy biscuits in the oven that were just beginning to brown.

Katie walked into the kitchen from the pantry, her bare feet scuffing the wooden floor. “I made the biscuits all by myself.”

“Looks like you did a fine job.”

“You weren't in your room when I searched for you.” An accusatory tone took hold of Katie's voice.

“I woke early.” Hannah set the metal pastry cutter into the sink. “I couldn't sleep.”

“Me either. I got cold in the night.”

“That's because you left your window open.” Mamm shook her head at Katie then flipped an egg.

Katie wrapped her arms around Hannah, forcing her to turn, and pressed her face against Hannah's chest. “You're cold now.”

“Yes, silly. It's cold outside.” Hannah rubbed a hand along her sister's back, held her longer than usual. Today would not be easy when Katie learned of Snowflake, and she wished she could spare her the pain of grief. Finally, the younger girl squirmed away, and Hannah blinked back tears that threatened to spill over.

“What's wrong?” Katie stared up at her. “Are you crying?”

Hannah fought for control over her emotions, blinked back the tears, and focused on cleaning the mess Katie had left on the counter from rolling out the biscuit dough. “I'm fine. Katie, can you fetch the butter and honey for the table?”

Reluctantly, Katie went to the propane-powered refrigerator and retrieved the stick of butter. Hannah felt Mamm's heavy gaze settle on her, but she focused on the window that looked out toward the barn, where she saw Dat and Levi headed her way, their cheeks bright red from the cold. Dat spoke to Levi, who then turned back toward the barn. Dat called out Levi's name but to no avail.

“You certainly had fun with all the flour this morning.” Hannah smiled at her little sister and scraped a patch of dried dough off the counter.

The worry tightening Katie's features relaxed into a smile, and she picked up a lump of dough and kneaded it in the palm of her hand, bits of flour sifting through her fingers onto the floor. Hannah wiped up a puddle of milk and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed at the crusty dough until Mamm came alongside Hannah and placed a hand on hers, stilled her movements. “Are you all right?” She touched Hannah's cheek. “Are you feeling well?”

She wanted to lean into Mamm's warm hand, throw herself into her mother's arms as she once did when she was Katie's age. But no one could take away the grief or give her the answers she so desperately needed. “I'm fine, Mamm. Really.” But Katie soon wouldn't be, and yet Hannah couldn't tell her. It was something Dat would have to do. Pinpricks of tears stung the backs of her eyes. “I am well.”

“Maybe she saw Levi last night.” Katie's voice had a singsong quality.

Mamm looked toward Katie, and Hannah took the opportunity to move across the kitchen and set the table, shuttering her gaze as she gathered fig and cherry preserves from the pantry. But she heard Mamm scold Katie quietly.

“Did you and Levi quarrel?” Mamm's sudden closeness startled Hannah, but not as much as the question.

She clunked the glass jars on the table. Did Mamm know she slipped out at night? Did she suspect it was to meet Levi? Other girls her age, Grace and Beth Ann, both went running around with their boyfriends; relationships of that sort were usually discreet and private. Feeling the pressure of Mamm's presence, her question, Hannah gave a quick shake of the head.

The back door opened, ending the questions, and a blast of cold swirled through the kitchen's warmth. Dat stamped his feet and removed his outer coat.

“Breakfast is nearly ready.” Mamm hurried to check the biscuits in the oven. “Daniel, the water is no longer hot. Is something wrong with the generator?”

Hannah's stomach flipped, and she moved quickly toward the back door. “I'll go check the line.”

But Dat blocked her path. Slowly, he hung his hat on the peg beside the door. “I'll take care of it after breakfast.”

“Dat!” Katie ran toward her father. “I made the biscuits today.”

His gaze landed on his youngest daughter. Where there was usually a smile, today a tightness pinched the corners of his mouth. “You are a good helper.”

Mamm's smile was for her youngest, but worry darkened her gaze that trailed Hannah. “Idle hands are the devil's play ground. Better be calling Levi.”

“He'll be along after his chores.” Dat's voice sounded gruff.

“The eggs and biscuits will be cold.” Mamm eyed me and tilted her head toward the door. “Let Hannah go hurry him along.”

Before Dat could protest, Hannah rushed out the door.

***

Hannah ducked her chin against the blustery wind and hurried toward the barn. The cold pricked her cheeks and made her nose run. She sniffed as she entered the barn, and the warmth of the animals embraced her. A cow lowed, then went back to munching hay. Hannah searched each stall, but it wasn't until she came to the end where the tack hung on the wall that she came to a sudden halt.

Levi stood shirtless, his torso bare. With his back partially turned, he didn't notice her as he hung a shovel on a wall peg, then wrapped something up, making the muscles in his arms and back ripple beneath his skin. Despite the chill in the air, a sheen of sweat covered his back. Hannah's breath sounded harsh in her own ears, and she felt her heart tripping over itself.

Then Levi turned around fast. Had she startled him? Heat rose up from her center, along her chest and neck, and seared her face. She caught only a wide expanse of skin, blond hair, flat-muscled stomach, which stirred another memory, before she shoved her gaze toward the floor. This was the body of a man, his strength obvious in the play of muscles, but Jacob, when she had seen him without a shirt, had been thinner, lankier, younger. Dark hairs had only just begun to sprout across his chest; the starkness of dark hair against pale skin had always intrigued her. But Levi…she felt a rush of heat as she'd never felt before.

“Hannah? Is something wrong?”

She shook her head but then nodded. Her gaze slid back toward him then skittered away. He didn't rush to cover himself but held his shirt balled up in his hand and finally chucked it behind him. As the seconds stretched out, he reached for one of Dat's coats and with slow deliberation, he tugged first one sleeve then the other on. But the coat had no button or fastening and so it gaped open, revealing his chest and belly, his muscles firm and toned.

He moved toward her, and she dropped her gaze to his shoes. “What is it?”

Something in his voice tugged at her and she glanced up and met his gaze. “Something happened here.”

The corner of his mouth pinched and his lips flattened. “Snowflake died.”

She blinked slowly, absorbing the news that she already had heard. “But what happened?”

“An animal. A…predator of some sort.” His features twisted, and this time his gaze shifted sideways. She glimpsed pain in his eyes.

“A predator?” She repeated as if she did not understand, yet she did.

“Did your father tell Katie?”

“No, not yet.”

His gaze drifted away from her as if he was troubled by something else.

“Levi.” She took a hesitant step toward him. “I need to know…what are you…have you said anything to Dat about last night?” Which seemed years ago.

His gaze was solid and sure and his jaw hardened. “Why would I?”

“I…well, I didn't know. I needed to be sure is all.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Hannah.”

My secret
. Is that what it was? It seemed worse than a secret; it seemed like a betrayal in some way. She waited for Levi to lecture her, to tell her it wasn't safe, it wasn't proper for her to go off at night to a deserted cemetery. But he said nothing of the sort. To fill the silence, she said, “Breakfast is ready.”

“I'll be along.”

When she turned, Levi called her name, and once again she faced him.

“Have you seen—” His lips tightened until he shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself.”

Perplexed by the concern in his eyes, the tension in his stance, the unspoken question, she retraced her steps out of the barn, her heart beating faster than her footsteps could carry her. Hannah's friends whispered about the different shapes of the boys they knew—who was built strong like an ox, who was thin as a twig, and who was husky from too much strudel—but Hannah had rarely purposefully looked, not since Jacob. He had been beautiful. But after this morning, she had to admit that Levi was rather pleasing to behold, and with the memory of him now tucked in a safe place inside her mind she felt her face once more grow warm.

With her thoughts dragging behind, she rushed toward the spring house. She paused at the door, glanced over her shoulder to be sure Levi wasn't following, then pulled it open and blinked against the darkness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust as slivers of morning light cut through the boarded walls and slanted across the dirt floor. Picking her way through the wires, cords, and machinery, she moved toward the back.

She needed to warn Akiva that her father would be coming soon. He would have to leave. He couldn't linger. He couldn't stay.

But when she reached the back, the pallet she'd made was empty, and the space he'd occupied only a short while ago was vacant, the bedding neatly folded in a pile. Disappointment and relief swirled through her because now she wouldn't have anything to explain. But where had Akiva gone? Would he be all right?

Then behind her something scuffed the dirt. She whirled around. Her heart leapt into her throat, pounded, and extinguished her air supply.

“What are you doing?” Katie stepped out of the shadows.

Hannah's hand covered the spot her heart should have occupied, and she took shallow breaths until it dropped back down into place. “You startled me, you goose.”

“I'm not a goose.” She leaned to one side to look behind Hannah, who pulled her skirt sideways to hide the blanket. Still, Katie's eyes widened. “Is Levi in here?”

“Levi?” Hannah's heart faltered.

Katie laughed and shook her head. “Mamm sent me after you.” She stepped sideways and pointed toward the stack of blankets and pillows. “What's that for?”

Hannah gave an indifferent shrug. “I was going to take it back to the house. You can do it for me.”

“Were you out here with Levi last night?”

“Take the bedding to the house, all right?”

With a decided pout, Katie picked up the blankets and pillow, and backed her way through the door. She let the door slap closed behind her, leaving Hannah alone in the darkness again.

A fluttering overhead made her dart sideways, her heartbeat became more of a flurry than steady, rhythmic beats, and then she heard the decided flap of a wing, felt a sudden brush of air on her cheek, and ducked. When she pushed the door ajar and light poured in, she realized it was only a trapped bird.

Blood is powerful.”

Roc listened intently to Father Roberto about his research and experience with vampires. Together, they had left the priest's little room with his research books, taken a turn about St. Joseph's, and ended up walking around the neighborhood past rundown houses and businesses that had metal bars covering the windows. This was an elderly part of Philadelphia, and its age spots were showing not only in the dated architecture and decrepit row houses but also in the ancient oaks, hackberries, and maples, their bare branches spindly, gnarled, and arthritic.

“But the blood”—the priest spoke as if discussing the weather—“which these foul creatures feed on, only offers temporary life. It's counterfeit to the sanctity of the blood of Christ, don't you see?” His eyes glittered, like a professor discussing his own dissertation. “That is why
they
must feed often.”

Obviously Father Roberto filtered this vampire theory through his religious ideology, but Roc hadn't swallowed the murky Kool-Aid yet. Still it was all he had to go on. For him, all that mattered was that a dead body, or two, demanded someone had to pay, and compensation came through simple judicial accounting. This meant the perp had to be caught, and the best way to do that was to know everything there was about him…or her. And if that meant learning about bloodsuckers then that's what he'd do.

But that didn't mean he felt comfortable with the subject, and he crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the chill that seemed to permeate his bones, though he wasn't sure it was simply the weather at fault. “How often do they have to…you know…uh, drink?”

“Every few days. When they feed, they grow warm, even hot, to the touch. But when they are hungry and on the hunt, their body temperature drops and they're cold, cold as a dead body. They move a bit slower then.” A smile lurked at the corner of the priest's mouth. “It's a good time to kill them. And yet, you must be careful because when they are hunting they are also desperate, and therefore extremely dangerous.”

Roc rubbed the back of his neck. The cold he felt inside had nothing to do with the weather. If he thought of what Father Roberto was saying logically, he began to doubt his own sanity, for listening to this nonsense or even considering it. But nothing rational could explain the things he'd seen. Illogical as the vampire premise was, it didn't mean it wasn't true. Still, he tried to focus on the words, excluding all thoughts and doubts, and simply absorb the information.

“And is it possible to kill them?”

“Of course, but it isn't easy. They have to bleed out entirely. You must keep your distance because if they latch onto you, bite into you, they will only grow stronger. And then your chance will be lost. And you will end up dead. Or worse.”

Death no longer frightened Roc, but allowing these…creatures to get away with killing made him burn. “Akiva…I wounded him. I'm sure of it. When he disappeared, could he have bled out somewhere?”

“Unlikely.” Roberto clasped both his hands and raised his forefingers toward his chin like a steeple. “One thing you must do is bind them. I keep a leather strap for this purpose.” From his hip pocket he produced a thick leather strap that looked as if it could hold Samson. “But a rope would work just as well. Handcuffs even. If they are bound then they cannot change or vanish.”

Roc cast an uncertain sideways glance at the priest. “Change?”

“They morph into other creatures, bats mostly, but anything will do. I saw one morph into a snake and slither away. But they usually choose something that can fly so they can escape more easily and get where they want more quickly.”

Roc stopped walking and a part of him wanted to bust out laughing.
Come on!
This was like a sorry B-movie. But the priest's serious demeanor kept Roc in check. The whole premise was absurd…and even more impossible to imagine a vampire could be killed at all. It was like playing a game where the rules kept changing in favor of your opponent. “So what you're really saying is that it's impossible to kill one.”

“It isn't easy, I'll grant you that. It has to be done fast. Bind, kill. Like a one-two punch. It's the binding that does the trick. You must wrap something around them, an ankle, a wrist…but it can't be anything flimsy because they are fiercely strong.” He tugged on both ends of the leather strap, then slapped it against his thigh, making a
thwap
. “But you must not hesitate. No second thoughts. No vacillation. Remember, they will not falter at striking, at killing. Did you hesitate when you shot this one called Akiva?”

Roc shook his head. “I gave him a warning.” Years of training had kicked in. “But I shot him, square in the chest.”

“But it wasn't a kill. You must destroy them.”

“Even a mortal wound in the chest wouldn't kill one?”

“Not if they have the opportunity to kill and revive themselves with blood. What is mortal to you and me is not mortal to
them
.”

Roc remained in place, unable to move forward into the world of dark toothy tales but unable to back away from all of the insanity. “Then there's probably another victim. Is that what you're saying?”

The priest gave the sign of the cross. “God forbid. Akiva may have found an animal to feed on, but if not…then most likely you are correct.”

Why didn't that make Roc feel better? “Okay so how does one become a…you know”—he swallowed back his reservations—“vampire?”

“
They
choose someone. Who knows why some are chosen and others killed. They have their reasons, I'm sure, they just don't divulge those motivations to us lowly humans. And that's how they think of us. We're inferior in every way: physically, mentally, and, in the worst way, according to them: we have a conscience. They don't seem to be hindered by that. Anyway, I have known vampires to choose someone as a mate and then change him or her.

“It's a delicate procedure though. Their feeding can get out of control and become frenzied. If
they
are hungry then they will not have the self-control to be careful and they'll end up killing instead of changing the person.”

“So what happens exactly?”

“It is somewhat conjecture on my part, of course, as no one has lived to…” Father Roberto's voice played out.

“Tell about it?” Roc finished for him but no smile emerged as a result of the cliché. Anyone changed was no longer alive. Not the way Roc or Father Roberto saw life.

The priest nodded. “Once a vampire, well, they are good at keeping their secrets. In fact, they release false information, which then helps protect them. But after much study, I believe what happens is the vampire bites the human, drains blood from them until they are weak and barely alive, then they must sacrifice another victim. The vampire offers the chosen one this so-called sacrificial blood. When the human drinks the blood of another, the change takes place. It is a delicate process, and I imagine it sometimes ends in death for all concerned.”

Father Roberto clapped a hand on Roc's back. “Think you'd like to take over my mission some day?”

Roc laughed. “You've got to be crazy.”

The priest's gaze was steady and unwavering. “Not at all. I can't do this forever.”

“You seem pretty strong and capable.” Roc touched his side, which still felt tender from the priest's strong kick.

“You should have seen me in my prime.” His gaze raked over Roc. “You must work on your own strength, because this task will not be easy. It will demand every ounce of strength you possess…and maybe more. You have been ill for a while?”

Roc sniffed. “In a way.”

“You will be strong now. I will pray for you.”

Somehow Roc knew it was going to take more than that.

“
For such a time as this
…” the priest whispered, looking off as if seeing something Roc could not.

“Excuse me?”

Father Roberto waved a hand, dismissing what he had said and began to walk forward, waving his hand for Roc to catch up. “You are named after a saint, yes?”

An invisible hand tightened around the base of Roc's spine. “How'd…” But his question died on his lips, because, of course, a priest would have studied the saints.

“It was either that or Rocky Balboa.” Father Roberto smiled. “Do you know about this Saint Roch?”

Roc rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at the brightening sky. “My mother spoke of him some.”

“He is sometimes referred to as Rocco.” The priest shoved his hands into his pant's pockets. “But that is neither here nor there. He did great things, healing many from the plague. That scourge disappeared under his sign of the cross. And this new pestilence will be destroyed with
your
help.”

What was the priest saying? That all Roc had to do was give the sign of the cross? He was no saint. He'd made a lot of mistakes in his life, and drinking away the last couple of years was one of them. He doubted God would be on his side, even in the most righteous of crusades.

“It was said that Saint Roch was born with the sign of the cross on his chest.” Father Roberto's gaze dropped down toward Roc's chest.

Roc began walking back to St. Joseph's and Father Roberto matched him step for step. This change in conversation made Roc even more uncomfortable than discussing vampires on the loose. He'd rather focus on the case, on the perp, on tracking down this animal. Focus on the details. The details mattered.

And the detail that stuck with him the most was the Amish girl and the trick-or-treater. A coincidence? Even though Emma hadn't been dressed like an Amish woman, she'd been wearing plain blue scrubs the night she died. Was
plain
the connection? Pure simplicity? Or Amish plain? But if so, then the homeless man didn't fit the perplexing puzzle.

“That connection we were discussing…” Roc rubbed a spot just beneath his left collarbone. “Could these Amish deaths—”

“I would say ‘plain' deaths, as those dressed were plain but not necessarily Amish.”

So the priest thought the same thing. Another thought occurred to Roc. “Could those murders have been attempts to change an Amish person into a vampire and it went bad?”

The priest stopped, the lines in his face furrowing and sagging, and he looked grief-stricken. “Then it might be worse than I thought. If this Akiva changes an Amish woman then it would be worse than death for her.”

Roc watched their feet move in a cadence, the strides matching, the determination even. “For anyone I'd say.”

“True. Very true.”